Accidentally in Love
by The Inkline
Summary: [Fluffy drabble, oneshot.]  Christophe always drank tea, and he drank it black. And Kyle never asked. [Slash, ChrisKyle]


Just a little drabble I did while downing my fourth cup of tea.

Pairings: Christophe/Kyle, one sided Stan/Kyle, one sided Chris/Gregory and Stan/Wendy.

Mild cursing and pure fluff.

Disclaimer: Do not own.

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Christophe always drank tea, and he drank it black. Hot or cold, there was never anything in the stuff aside from water and the three or four bags of crumbly shit. It was an obsession, a ritual, something important for no apparent reason.

No apparent reason to Kyle, anyway.

Even when he was sick, and Kyle tried to force some cranberry juice down his throat, he'd only receive a few curses for his efforts and a demand for a hot cup.

Never anything with it. No lemon, no milk, no sugar. All of the Snapple in the fridge was consumed by Kyle or Kenny, sometimes Stan when he had time to go and bug his best friend at the apartment.

Never Chris.

Kyle often debated whether or not to question the addiction, and oftentimes ended up convincing himself that it was just that-- an addiction, the caffeine as much of a drug to the mercenary as the nicotine he constantly inhaled.

He never convinced himself for long, some unnamable feeling pushing at his mind until it drove him insane, and he couldn't resist the urge to find the Frenchman and cling for dear life. The brunette never said anything during those moments, simply turned in the redhead's arms and hugged him back, pulling him into that hard chest, enveloping Kyle in the scent of dirt and smoke and tea.

Sometimes, he'd want to cry, though his pride would never allow such a thing. It was bad enough, he'd scold himself, that he ran to the brunette and clung on a whim. He wouldn't make himself into some soppy woman on a hunch.

Chris would hate that. How many times had he rolled his eyes, muttered under his breath about the various antics of the fairer sex? Sometimes the muttering made Kyle uncomfortable, knowing that if someone like Wendy was in earshot, he'd be sure to get it just by being associated with someone as sexist as Christophe.

He even came to find the need to monitor his own words, the brunette man infecting his brain bit by bit, and a few Freudian slips had led to a few fights with Stan. Not that the fights ever lasted long, not anymore. It had become an understanding, and the two friends had even given it a name, "Mole Syndrome." Only Wendy, heavy with hers and Stan's third child, would get exceptionally upset. It usually took longer to get her to calm down after an attack, with heavy apologies from Kyle and careful wording from Stan that Kyle didn't mean it. She and Kyle weren't exactly on the best of terms, considering each other rivals for Stan (though it was obvious who had won the dark-haired boy,) and the Syndrome never helped.

No, Kyle would rather die than to become the cause for the syndrome, and so, he kept his feelings in check, and never asked.

He never asked about why the Frenchman drank the bitter fluid so obsessively.

He never asked about the way Christophe would become nearly unbearable when someone mentioned a certain, rainy little island in Europe.

And never, ever asked about the worn little photograph at the bottom of Chris' sock drawer, depicting two young boys in their pre-teens, grinning at the camera as the brunette held the blonde in a headlock.

He never asked, because somehow, he always knew.

He knew, because sometimes he found himself feeling the same, looking at old photographs from when they were all younger, when he had Stan's undivided attention, and wishing that he still did. He'd catch himself imagining what it would have been like, with Stan sharing this apartment with him instead of the irritable mercenary, with Stan doing that oh-my-God thing with his tongue instead of Chris.

It seemed, sometimes, in disappointment, Kyle and Christophe were perfectly matched. And it hurt, because all the redhead could think about was how thinly attached they were. Was it even love? Was it anything more than them serving as replacements for each other? Was it only a matter of time before one got sick of the other and moved on?

Sometimes, when he got angry enough, he felt like doing just that. His temper was something unfortunately inherited, learned and conditioned into his blood by an overprotective and overreactive mother, and it took all of his father's patience and willpower to just keep his mouth shut. To keep from screaming at the brunette to get the fuck out and never come back, because he just couldn't take the strain and the smoke and the shitty personality that made up his lover anymore.

He always got scared in the end, though, homing in on that shittiness and hugging it from behind.

And then, breathing in that dirty smell and feeling those strong arms wrap around him in return, every insecurity melted away.

Because despite his constant doubts and the sheer frustration of the situation, he knew.

He knew this was love.


End file.
